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by roselightsaber



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselightsaber/pseuds/roselightsaber
Summary: After the Temple falls, Chirrut and Baze seek meaning.





	

Chirrut sneaks out while Baze is still sleeping. The other will likely be furious when he realizes–or, more accurately, he’ll  _pretend_ to be furious, but what he’ll really be is scared and sad, which is all he’s been for days now. Thirty years, almost, spent side by side at the Temple is stripped away in one cold, tactical swoop. Initials surreptitiously scratched into the flagstones, the bed they shared, the little kitchen where Baze helped him to relearn to cook after his sight went completely, all gone. Thirty years inside, four days out. Chirrut at least expects his own hurt; walking through Baze’s pain with him has been far more difficult.

 They have the Force, though, and Chirrut keeps telling himself–telling them both–that it will provide everything else in time. Their home now, of half a day and one night, is a room that might have been a closet, in the back of a local mechanic’s shop. Baze has known the owner for years, casually, usually bringing in weapons for no-questions-asked repairs, and though it seems to absolutely crush his soul, for Chirrut, he asked for a little bit of charity.

 _No guarantees,_ the man, Irin, offered. _Three days, tops. And I’m not your bodyguard._  

Baze got so angry at the suggestion that they might need protecting that Chirrut had to come back later and beg for the room. Chirrut is no stranger to surviving that way, though, but neither is Baze if he’d be honest about it. Now more than ever, Chirrut knows they’re going to have to reach out to Jedha to make ends meet; they never lived extravagantly at the temple but not knowing if they’ll have a roof over their heads from night to night, and not knowing if stormtroopers will decide they’re part of the problem and shoot them on sight, is something else entirely. Baze wept their first night on the street, once he thought Chirrut was asleep, not for the cold or for sleeping right on the stone pathway, but for the home they’d made together that he already missed so much. It brought up memories long suppressed, and as he cried into Chirrut’s shoulder it was as if he was a little abandoned street urchin all over again – purposeless, alone, and afraid.

Chirrut wants to go fight. What do they have left to lose? Baze tells him the same thing over and over these last few surreal, confusing days, and Chirrut just _hates_  it because he’s knows he’s right. _It’s overrun. We’ll die too._

Death doesn’t scare Chirrut in the slightest, but when he told Baze as much the other bundled him up in a tight embrace and told him not to say it anymore. It was another whole long, cold, disjointed day before he finally gave up what was on his mind.

_You’re all I have, Chirrut. I can’t lose you too._

It’s the only selfish thing Baze has ever said to him, as far as Chirrut can remember, so he promises not to try to go back to the temple, with the ghost of those words still haunting his mind. And he’s not going there now, but Baze is still going to yell about how dangerous it is for him to go out alone while the city is like this. Baze knows firsthand how well Chirrut can fight, but he can’t think straight lately. Chirrut understands; he can feel the chaotic, emotional energy all around him, like static obscuring a clear signal. Baze is a warrior; he’s strong, and gruff, and he’s had a harder life than anyone deserves. And somehow, despite it all, he’s the kindest, gentlest soul Chirrut has ever encountered – that’s what he loves so much about him.

And _that’s_  why Chirrut has crept out at this hour – that soft side of his partner. They can defend each other from blaster bolts and grenades and riot batons all day long, but there’s little he’s been able to do to heal the reopened wound of being suddenly homeless and aimless again. The streets of Jedha are cold and empty at this hour, but the shopkeeper knows he’s coming off-hours; she knows him and she knows Baze, so she’s keenly aware of why it’s a secret mission for Chirrut, and why her simple wares are so needed. He meets the old lady at the back door of her tea shop, and she won’t let him pay for the little tin of fragrant dried leaves, nor for a little power-cell charged kettle in which to prepare it.

 _You always watched out for me For all of us here,_  she said. _I wish I could do more_. 

But it’s more than enough. It’s Baze’s favorite blend, smoky with a hint of citrus. They used to save up and sneak into the city while on duty together for a cup, to soak in the warmth of the beverage and each other’s company as their relationship grew and changed. Chirrut stealthily tucks a few credits under the door before leaving. 

Baze would have scolded him if he’d known he was going to get it, despite the good memories. _It’s not safe to go out while the troops are here; it’s frivolous, what are you thinking buying such things when we don’t even have a place to live._ He would say he didn’t need anything – except Chirrut – if Chirrut had told him his intention to bring him back a little bit of home. So Chirrut just sneaks out and does it, which Baze ought to expect by now, and instead Baze wakes up to the familiar smell of the tea brewing in the little kettle. The scent is rich and refreshing, and Chirrut smiles at the thought that they’ve had this sensory experience in common for so long, before and after he lost his sight, much the same way. Chirrut can feel something like relief wash over Baze as the other stirs and awakens, and he’s hopeful before the feeling is swiftly crushed under that choking haze of fear-hidden-within-anger again.

“Did you go out without me?”

“Baze–”

“Where did you get that? Chirrut, you didn’t…” He sits up, rubbing his eyes, and not necessarily for grogginess.

“Baze, please.” He presses a warm cup into his hand. “Please, share this with me.”

“You shouldn’t – we can’t just pretend everything is okay. There are still troops out there, and you go out in your robes and–”

“Just for a moment, Baze.” He joins him on the folded-over blanket serving as their temporary bed, sitting shoulder to shoulder. “Relax. Take some time to wake up, and…” He rests his head on his shoulder. “Be at home with me for a little while.”

There’s a long pause that Chirrut can’t decipher with the best of his senses. He feels Baze move, though, swirl the tea around in the cup a little, sigh, and take a sip. “You did this just to cheer me up?” There’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “Everything that’s wrong right now, and you…” His voice hitches, possibly the only reaction Chirrut didn’t anticipate. Baze sips from his cup and coils an arm around Chirrut’s shoulders.

“More than cheering up,” He says, leaning into the touch. “A little bit of home.”

Chirrut feels that fear fade, if only a shade, if only for a moment. The other passes the cup to him for a sip and presses a tea-warmed kiss against his temple. “You are my home.”

“And nothing–” He passes the cup back to him. “Will ever take me away from you.”

“Full of foolishness as always,” Baze muses, taking another drink. He goes quiet then, but there’s an aura of contentedness surrounding them, warm and secure despite their surroundings being anything but. After they’ve mostly finished the tea, he leans closer to him still. “You are my home,” He says again. “I suppose that’s foolishness, too.”

“Yes,” Chirrut agrees, taking his hand with a smile. “But it’s the kind I like.”


End file.
